


Alive

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-31
Updated: 2001-08-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 05:11:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11329254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Missing scene from Joelle's "Miami Blues" which was itself a missing scene from "Tango de los Pistoleros"





	Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Alive by Alison

ALIVE by Alison  
Archive: Unusual Suspects, Basement, Ephemeral, Gossamer: anywhere else just ask  
Disclaimer: Not mine, etc  
Category: Langly/Byers slash  
Rating: NC-17 for m/m relationship  
Spoilers: Tango de los Pistoleros  
Summary: Missing scene from J. D. Rush's "Miami Blues" which was itself a missing scene from "Tango de los Pistoleros"  
Feedback:   
Note: Thanks to Surreal's "Langly is dead" challenge, we had J. D. Rush's missing scene from "Tango de los Pistoleros" which was great in every way. Only I found myself wondering, what happened in the 83 minutes between Langly and Byers' reunion at 8.13 am and the following scene at 9.36 am? Seems to me that *something* must have happened!  
So, BIG thanks to J. D. Rush for letting me play with her story, and for some very helpful feedback. This one's dedicated to her (well, without her it just wouldn't have happened.) I just haven't had time to write for so long, it was really difficult to get started again but her story provided just the kick in the butt my imagination needed.

* * *

ALIVE

8.13 AM

It takes us a while but with Jimmy's help we reassemble the bed and then we're all standing round grinning stupidly at each other. I can't take my eyes off Langly; he's staring at Frohike pleadingly, like he's trying to tell him something. Frohike nods briefly at him, then flicks a glance in my direction and grins fleetingly, resting his hand for a second on my shoulder as he moves past me.

Frohike grabs Jimmy by the sleeve and tugs him towards the door. "C'mon Jimmy, let's go get something to eat. I saw a place just down the road."

The big guy finds himself being hauled out the door by Frohike like an ocean liner being manouvered by a tugboat. The door swings closed behind them and the last thing we hear is "... what about the guys?"

Frohike snaps, "We'll bring them something back. Let's go!" and the door slams shut and we're alone.

The bed is between us but I just stand still staring at him, drinking in the sight of him; I can't believe he's real. He smiles at me, that sweet smile no-one else sees that is mine alone, and I try to say his name, but my throat closes up tight like a vice and I'm choking. My vision blurs and then suddenly he's there beside me and his arms close round me. I'm trembling with cold and relief and exhaustion, every muscle in my body aching unbearably. I slump against him, clutching him like I was back in the water, drowning, and then I'm sobbing again, quietly into his shoulder. He doesn't do anything, just stands with his arms round me and lets me have my cry out. He knows me so well.

After a while I'm just standing there with my face against his neck, resting my lips against his throat and breathing in the smell of him. He smells exactly the same, overlaid with something different; must be the shower gel, one of those crappy "complimentary" samples you get in the bathroom in places like this. Ringo always takes them home, every one of them, and I always tease him about it.

Never again. I'll never tease him, never criticise him, never take him for granted again. He can say what he likes, do what he likes. I nearly lost him.

I shift a little in his arms so I can speak and lift my head to look at him.

He's crying too.

Then I'm enfolded, wrapped in him again and he's whispering "sorry, sorry" over and over again against my ear.

"I thought you were dead" is all I can say hoarsely as I clutch him tighter, digging my fingers into his shoulder blades hard enough to make him gasp. I don't know why I did that; to prove he's really here, or to prove "I can hurt you too"? To punish him because, for a while, I wanted to die too? I don't know and I don't care. I need him - now.

He growls "hey" and pulls away a little, one hand lifting my chin, the other sliding over the back of my head. God, I must look a mess. But he just strokes my hair, his fingers combing through the tangles and smoothing it down. Then - oh, at last - he's kissing me and it's like never before, tender and loving and greedy and desperate all at the same time.

He breaks the kiss, much too soon, and puts his lips against my ear. "I'm not dead, okay?"

I laugh softly, my mouth against his hair. "Prove it." I push against him, demanding, and feel him harden against my belly. I'm hard too, aching with it, he can feel me and we know where we're going, soon, soon, please, please. . .

His hands slide under the waistband of my pants and down, where they were before, pushing them off my hips. They're loose and fall to the floor easily and I kick them off. Then the shirt; he pulls it over my head and I'm standing there naked, shaking with desire and need and pushing against him again. He grabs me, one hand behind my neck as he seeks my mouth, the other going over my ass, fingers sliding down my crack and I pant in ecstasy.

Then his hand is gone and before I can moan indignantly, the room tilts round me and I'm in his arms, being carried across the room and dumped unceremoniously on the nearest bed. Oh god, this is incredible, I'm so ready . . . need him so much . . .

The second he lands beside me I'm on him, one leg over his hip and pressing our groins together, jerking against him. One small part of my mind is watching myself in amazement; I'm never like this. Never so demanding. But what I feel . . . it's almost like fear, this desire, I've got to have him, right now, I nearly lost him, might never have had him again, I've got to know he's real . . . I'm tearing at his clothes, kissing him all over his face, muttering something, I don't know what.

Then suddenly I'm on my back and he's on top of me, his whole weight resting on me and pinning me down, his hands holding my wrists. I can't move, he won't let me. I open my mouth to protest and he cuts me off, a long deep kiss again and I submit, my head falling back as his tongue probes deep, exploring gently, comforting. He just holds me there, calming me, holding me down while the panic subsides. Oh god, he knows, he knows what I need, he's so good, I love him so much.

Now he's kissing my face, just gentle slow brushes of his lips against my cheek, my chin, my eyes. Murmuring "shhhhh, s'okay, s'okay", again and again, gentling me, soothing me, stroking his fingers over my beard, down my neck, his hands running over my shoulders. It's working; I feel my breathing steadying and my heart ceases its wild pounding. He's real; my Ringo is here and everything will be all right.

He shifts off me so we're lying close, facing each other, and we lie still together for a while, not speaking, not needing to speak. Just *being* together. Arms tight around each other, feeling the warmth and the satin texture of his skin. His breath on my forehead, stirring my hair. Together in a still centre of calm. The storm is over.

His hands smooth down over my ribs and I yelp in pain. I'd forgotten the bruises I picked up when I was looking for him in the dark water, the times I smashed into the boat when I came up for air, or snagged against wreckage on the sea bed. I'm covered in bruises; I'd totally forgotten them in my anguish over Ringo.

He jerks back and looks me over, worried. "You're hurt - what happened?"

"It's nothing. It's just a few bruises. It's okay." I really don't want him to make much of this now, or he won't make love to me. I like it, I really do, when he gets all protective, but not now. There's only one thing I want, right now.

His forehead creases in doubt and I reach for his hand. "Please, Ree", holding his eyes with mine, I pull him in. He kisses the bruises on my chest, one by one, so gently, moving down over my ribs; his lips feel wonderful, so soft, so tender. Down and down; I'm trembling again and this time it's not from cold.

He shifts his body weight and his hand brushes my thigh. That's all it takes and my erection, which hadn't really gone away, is hard again almost instantly. I grunt and he turns his head to see why, then looks back at me and raises an eyebrow.

"Gonna take my eye out, John?"

"Mmhhhh . . . unless you got a better idea . . uhhhhh!" That's when I lose the power of coherent speech and his mouth engulfs my cock and sucks hard. He dips his head, taking me into himself as deep as he can and I try to scream, but only a whimper comes out. I arch up off the bed, writhing, and he grabs my ass in both hands and forces me back down. I twist helplessly and he pulls back a bit, running his tongue up my shaft and flickering round the head; he squeezes my ass with one hand and the other . . . one finger teases at my opening, probes and pushes and slides in, and the blinding electric jolt as he finds my prostate nearly makes my heart stop. He does it again and again, and I'm shrieking his name, spasming helplessly, uncontrollably in the final seconds before I come in a blaze of white light.

When I open my eyes again he's asleep with his head on my stomach. I raise my head carefully so as not to wake him, craning to look at the clock radio by the bed. 9 AM: mustn't sleep too long. But for just a while we can be together again before we have to face the world.

I run my fingers down his face, marvelling this beautiful, wonderful man is mine and that he loves me; that he has been given back to me. Back from the dead.

END

  
Archived: August 25, 2001 


End file.
